


The Lone Hobbit

by BrokenHazelEyes



Series: A Place to Call Home [1]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Dark, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Alternative Universe- BAMF Bilbo, Angst, Archery, BAMF Bilbo, Child Death, F/F, F/M, Feels, Gen, Graphic Description of Corpses, Harm to Children, Implied Character Death, M/M, Mass Death, Minor Character Death, Out of Character, Soulmates, Triggers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-15
Updated: 2013-06-18
Packaged: 2017-12-15 00:38:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/843282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrokenHazelEyes/pseuds/BrokenHazelEyes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is not the story you are used to, of gallivanting Hobbits and beautiful rolling hills of the Shire. No, this is the dark tale of what could have gone wrong. There is no green lush, or meals poured out on tables at every hour, this is of starvation and decay. This is the tale of the soul survivor of the death of the Shire, Bilbo Baggins. <br/>You will also hear of Thorin and his grand Company, leaving forward with only thirteen. They know not of each other, but that shall soon change. Fate is a cruel mistress, and has no sympathy. A Hobbit with no place to truly call home, and a Dwarf who is ready to bleed dry to get his back. Thorin has a bit of help, though. For this lone Hobbit, who has witness the eradication of all he has known, will not give up the chance to give a home back to those who have lost it. No matter the cost, he will succeed, even if that means giving away his life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

 

 

            There was once, long ago, a hole in the ground. This was a Hobbit’s hole, and therefore it meant comfort, food and love. This hole was called Bag End, located in the rolling hills of the grand Shire.

            No longer, though, did this apply. Once there was a family here, grand and few. The Baggins, proud and adored. Bungo, the holder of the name, and his wife Belladonna lived here for years without trouble. They had one son, Bilbo, who was the perfect little Hobbit child. He was adventurous- given to him by the Took blood in his veins- however was polite and social when in the market or even around the Hills. When he ventured further into the dark woods, his mentality shifted. He was no longer son of Baggins, but another beating heart in a land of death and life.

            If he came home with large bruises and cuts, no one said anything. They chalked it up to childhood tom foolery. Blood washed away, bruises faded and cuts healed.

            This never changed, and as Bilbo grew older people feared. The mad Hobbit, with a glint in his eye, wanting _adventure_. Such an ugly thing, they’d say, they’d make you late for dinner.

            This pattern continued, until the death Belladonna during the worst winter ever recorded. Fell Winter took many good souls, both children and the aged, but Bilbo was spared.

            There was worse to come.

 

            The firedrake came.

 

            The land of the Shire never recovered, homes burned and Hobbits dead. The drake did not leave until there was no more than ash in the pristine land, then flew off into the night.

            Only one person survived, and I am sure by now you know who.

            There was no more Bag End, his parents were already dead, so why did Bilbo stay? There are rumors, mere legends, that say Bilbo buried each and every body, friend or unknown. Then, he disappeared.

            If anyone else survived, they would have seen the young boy whisked away by a tall man in a gray flowing robe.  


	2. The First Death

            Gone forever, it seemed, were the rolling lush hills of the Shire. Winter’s hand had once again fallen over the land and with it came the fear of what lay beyond. The Brandywine River was freezing over, thicker than ever before. Snow had already fallen thick like a woolen blanket over both house and ground, and Hobbit sized footprints trekked from various places like pathways. Some of the younger Hobbits would giggle, and depicted shapes from the various trails. If they could not find a picture or image, then they’d trop through the snow and create new ones.

They crafted stories of love, of fun and memory. They were childish games, yes, but even the older residents of the Shire smiled and would carefully step so that the children could have new shapes to discover. The Fell Winter only got frostier. The cold chilled everyone to the bone, but the hearth was warm and there was family, even if the food was short.

            The Hobbits were still merry, as the fluffy folk always seemed to be, until the lone howl of a Warg broke any peace.

            It had been late at night when the screams started, a shrill voice of one of the younger Hobbitlings, as it turned from fear to absolute agony to being cut off with an inaudible sharp gasp. None dared venture out, and a group of men held back the boy’s frantic mother. They kept watch on her until dawn, when the Rangers brought back the body.

            The boy… was gone. His left arm was torn off, bone broken and tendons shivered cold from the stump of a limb. Flesh had long stopped bleeding, drained away into the snow, and he was as white as the ground he had died on. His face had claw marks torn across, an eyeball scratched out and his lip separated from his face. The lone eye was closed, in a show of respect, but the dark hole stared back at the on lookers. Even his torso was mangled, organs torn out and ribs sticking through the gaping wound.

Teeth marks were everywhere, bits of flesh torn away from intact limbs and hips, and his clothes were gone. They were so shredded that one of the Rangers had laid a blanket over the corpse’s lower half, as if it would be improper to see something as simple as his organs. Most of them were shredded and handing limp from the open ribcage, anyway. The poor boy… He looked like a fresh deer carcass after a pack of starved wolves descended upon it, torn apart in frenzy and bled dry.

            The mother screamed, falling to her knees and reaching with one hand out toward her lone son… her only son! The men did not hold her back this time, and she ran to the Rangers and snatched her darling up.

            “He was only seven! _ONLY SEVEN_! _WHY DID YOU TAKE HIM FROM ME_??” Her scream echoed like a ghastly scream, bouncing off snowy hills and leaching its way into every Hobbit hole and building. The chill of her screams would never truly leave, it would ring like a mourning bell at any waking hour, perfectly remembered and repeated.

            The woman’s husband pulled her away from the crowd, tears dripping at the sight of his son but he mourned silently. The woman continued cursing, screaming and clawing at her dead son’s skin like a child would a blanket during a night terror.

            The Rangers looked out of place, tall and mighty on their grand Steeds but they had no control over this. They could kill each and every Warg and wolf they saw, but it would end nothing.

 

            The Shire’s destiny had been decided, and this was only the beginning.


	3. Never Forget the Firedrake

            If you asked Belladonna why she still managed to smile during the Fell, she would most assuredly mutter lightly, “My son.. he survived, one of the few. My brave son.”

            Bungo never smiled, fraught with horror and fear as more bodies were dragged in. The Rangers pulled sleds behind their horses, an arrow notched and held tightly in both hands as they stayed on perfectly with years of practice. The horses neighed softly, eyes wide and smart. They knew danger lurked here, away from the land of the short ones, and even in the Shire there was still danger.

            They dared not make a loud sound.

            Every day there seemed to be more and more bodies, despite the fact people only ventured out to get wood from outside the holes or such. Still, limbless and torn apart bodies were hauled back.

            There were woman, stomachs ripped open and hair matted with blood. There were men, fingers curled together like they had been holding a weapon of some sort. There were children, these were the worst. Their small bodies looked like thousands of huge knives had cleaved clean through. Skulls were crushed open, brains gone and eyes rolling out of their sockets.

            No one knew why the older Hobbits only looked feasted upon, while the children looked like they’d been tortured before being killed. Still, mothers cried and fathers paced.

            “You don’t go out, I don’t care if you hear screams or if someone cries for you, you stay inside the house.” Bungo told his wife one day, after she’d rushed out the night before to save a child from a Warg. She’d come back with cuts, horrible weeping cuts, but the child was long dead.

            “You want me to let someone die when I could do something?” She hissed back, tired and sore. “You want me to let someone die while I listen to their cries?”

            “Yes!” Bungo shouted back, red in the face and puffed up despite the thinning of his stature. “I can’t lose you… What would Bilbo do?”

            Belladonna looked down, tears fresh in her eyes but looked back up determined at her husband, “He would know I died a noble death, warrior or not, and that his mother loved him.”

            They never mentioned the subject again, partly because Belladonna died two weeks after. She had died in the center of town, attempting to defend an old woman who’d been dragged out of her home by one of the smaller Wargs.

            Bilbo was never allowed to see the body.

 

            “The Wargs are gone.” The town was in uproar, for there had been no deaths in two days, and all trails of the beasts seemed to be gone and cold, dead as the winter. Anyone who was left gathered together in Bag End, one of the larger homes, and muttered around the hearth.

            “Why? They are insatiable monsters, they thirst for the death of us.” One Hobbit croaked, for she was old and wise. “They’ve never left a city with any being alive, dead. All dead.”

            They talked for hours, no food or tea in their bellies, but the hunger had long since hurting them. It had been three months since Fell Winter started, three months of starving.

            Bilbo turned to his father, wise beyond his years. His mother had brought back many books on her adventures, and he was the only one other than her to take intrest in reading them.

            “Sometimes they leave, but not because they’re bored or done with the city.”

            The entirety of the council turned to the young Hobbit, who shrunk into his father’s leg. Somebody urged him to speak, so Bilbo went on.

            “Wargs… they aren’t the worst things out there. They fear things to, monsters worse than Orcs or Wargs. They run when they know something is coming, something bad.”

            Everyone then turned to Bungo, who looked down with fear. Bilbo looked up at his father and tilted his head, confused.

            Bungo raised his head, “Belladonna used to talk of legends, things from her adventures.”

            Nobody said anything about the Took girl’s wild voyages, so Bungo went on.

            “She told me stories of dragons, grand things that terrorized lands stretching hundreds of miles. She told me one, named Smaug,”

           

            Bilbo had foretold correctly, the Wargs had run, and Bungo had also been correct. They were fleeing from Smaug. They did not catch on quickly enough, though, because three days after the council the entire Shire burned.

            The snow melted away under the sheer heat of the dragon’s arrival, his glistening underbelly a majestic shade of red. Yellow eyes watched the few Hobbits in the open burn, as the dead trees caught fire and the exposed grass- despite the wetness- caught flame.

            It was a mere hour before smoke engulfed the Shire, but still the dragon continued. He circled overhead, roaring at any who dared stay alive. His claws looked like ostentatious curved knives, and as he banked down they would catch on grass and hills, tearing the land apart.

            Bag End was gone.


	4. Say Your Goodbyes

 

            The smoke was finally starting to clear after seven hours of constant burn, and all that seemed to be left was ash and molten metal. Even the strongest of the Shire’s metal quickly had melted under the drake’s attentions.

            A few bodies were spared of complete incineration, but most had only fatty chunks of flesh left over a charred skeleton. Faces were burned away, identities gone, and like that they were forgotten.

            The fire breather had left when the cries of agony stopped, fire seeping into their throats and burning away their vocal cords. When all noise ceased, save for the rumble of debris giving way, he took his leave.

           

            Bilbo ran, faster than ever before, with sure feet and a heart fluttering fast than a bird’s. Roots seemed to sink toward the earth for him, so that his path was easier- oh what a mockery.

            The image was forever seared into his brain, the scene he was fleeing from could never be escaped. The fire was still behind him, eating at the forest with jaws more foul than even the mightiest Orc.

            Tears did not fall, and it seemed the Hobbit boy would just have to let his open wounds cry for him. There was burned skin on his hands, and his head swam from the smoke quickly filling his lungs.

            He ran on. Sickness raged in his gut as he thought of leaving, even though the Shire was dead it was still his home. He stopped at one of the last great hills before the land flattened into an endless plane, devoid of anything except trees and danger. His eyes misted over, and the boy’s knees collapsed from under him. The world went dark, despite the fact of the imposing fire burning only a few minutes run away.

 

            _Bag End caught aflame, of the last houses to fall. The picket fence was black and burned beyond repair, the magnificent green door now grey hues of ash. There came no voices from inside the Hobbit hole, for Bilbo and Bungo both knew Smaug would hear them and come after the two with hunger beyond comprehension._

_“We’re going to die.” Bilbo whispered as quietly as possible, and the flames from above started to heat the room. Fire was roaring in the hearth, uncontrollable as it was not normal fire, but Dragon fire.  It was spreading from the hearth to the mantle, and creeping across the walls like fast moving ivy._

_“Shush.” Bungo hugged his son against his chest, but he did not try to deny the Hobbitling the truth. “It’ll be okay.”_

_“I hear them dying.” Bilbo was right, because the Hobbits were screaming like a retched song, burning alive and dying slowly. “I don’t want to die.”_

_Bungo cried. If they stayed in Bag End, they would slowly melt. Organs would fail, smoke would poison them and the flames would engulf their flesh. If they went outside, they’d surly be caught by the drake, a fate perhaps worse than death. Belladonna always used to create such horrible tales of those misfortunate enough to meet a dragon. She’d spin tales of bodies torn apart, eaten alive and skin torn off of fat, like it was child’s work._

_“You need to run, Bilbo, as fast as you can. Don’t let him catch you, and don’t stop running. Don’t come back, not for me not for anybody!” Bungo panted as the smoke started to make his vision blur. The door was not usable, but there was a broken window big enough for the Hobbitling to climb through._

_“You won’t survive.” Bilbo cried, “You’ll die. You’ll die, just like Mother!”_

_Bungo nodded, teary eyed and broken. “But you are fast, and you can run as far as any horse or pony. You need to find somewhere safe.”_

_“What if Smaug attacked the other Hobbit lands too?”_

_“You can’t think about that boy--” Bungo was cut off by a woman’s horrible screaming, which seemed to rock the land and shake the house. Bilbo was crying now, not from the large cuts on his arms and torso, but that he was literally watching his father die. The man was pale, lips were turning blue and he looked ready to die._

_“Go!” Bungo shouted, and with a cough, collapsed to the floor. His arm was thrown out, pointing toward the window, and in his other hand he was clutching one of Belladonna’s necklaces._

_Bilbo was shocked still. The life was draining from his father’s corpse, and the blank eyes gave no answers._

_It was this moment that Bilbo had to choose his fate. He could run, and most likely still die, or he could lay next to his father and await his demise._

_More screams echoed through the house, cries of help and last loving words. Bilbo choked back a sob, kissed his father’s cheek and fled out the window._

_Bilbo ran and ran. Smaug did not seem to notice the small figure weaving in the shadows, and continued on raining fire upon the still living Hobbits. Bag End was completely up in flame, as was the rest of the Shire, but Bilbo just kept on running until his legs burned and he kept going because he needed to escape the fire. The fire in his heart, and the one in the land behind._

_And, in that moment, he’d wished he’d stayed at his father’s side and died, even if he’d passed alone. He wished he’d died during the Fell, at his Mother’s side waiting for Father._

_He wished himself dead._

_And after he’d buried his father’s remains next to his mother, when the damn dragon left, he’d make it so it wasn’t a wish._

_For Hobbits are social creatures, and need love to survive, so in a sense…. Bilbo was already dead._

            Bilbo sobbed silently in his sleep, but did not wake, and slowly the fire burned itself away leaving only death and destruction from the dragon’s wake. He could not even find solstice in sleep, but soon the Hobbit dropped off into sheer darkness as exhaustion took his hand and led him away. However, he could not sleep forever, and then he’d face what was left of Hobbiton, alone. 

           


	5. The Green Lady and her Stone Lord

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realize that the religious story in the following chapter does not match J. R. R. Tolkien's universe. That is intentional, not accidental. When you read it, you will understand what I mean.  
> Also, I will not be using writing accents for Dis, Fili, Kili or any other names unless deemed absolutely necessary. The story line of 'The Lone Hobbit' is very loose, and I will be playing around with the Hobbit's time line so that it fits as I deem. Thank you, and enjoy the chapter!

            Bilbo was more aware when the sun rose over the sky, waking lucid to the light drizzle on his face. At first he’d thought it was just his tears, but as the rain pitter-pattered on his skin he’d quickly fixed his assumption.

            There was pain everywhere, shooting up his legs and into his torso and into his arms. The wounds had not yet festered with sickness, but the Hobbit knew that if they stayed as they were that fever and infection would soon come.

            His brain did not stop, switching from pain to a wild horror. What if the Wargs had come back? The dragon had left, since the forest no longer burned, so would the creatures come back to feast on the charred flesh of a free kill?

            Bilbo’s breath came faster, huffing out hot against the cool air of morning dew.

            “Father.” The one word slipped past his lips, like a spell uttered by a unpracticed witch, and quickly in captured him.  The Hobbit pushed himself to his feet, nearly collapsing again but managing to snag a hold on a nearby tree.

            His heart refused to calm, and pumped blood as fast as possible as if screaming ‘run, run!’. He indulged the stupid organ, and sprinted off in the direction of the Shire, the fact slipping from his mind that he’d watched his father die just hours before.

 

            Thousands of miles away, the roar of the mighty Smaug was slowly dying away. In the land of the great Dwarves, the Hobbits found a common enemy. Of course, this would be much more helpful if even a handful of Hobbits survived…

            The Lone Mountain, Erebor, was falling. Perhaps, that is too optimistic. Erebor was gone, still there in physical idea, but no longer was it the great Dwarven home it once was. The red firedrake, with chops still bloody from the Hobbit massacre, headed for the golden hills held within the Mountain. It was a dragon, true to his blood, and the call of gold rivaled that of any Durin’s lust.

            The Dwarves were forced to flee, a cowardly thing for such a proud race, and left their home. Behind them burned the homes, and perhaps the most horrible thing to ever be spoken of happened also.

            Many Ones died.

            You shan’t understand, unless you hear the full tale, of the Green Lady and her Stone Lord, so let it be told.

            Before the creation of the Great Dwarves, the Elven people or the Men, there was a grand woman who tended the land and yearned for children to raise and love. She kept the world alive, and some said that a mere whisper of her voice could cure any illness.

            Anyway, there was also the great Stone Lord, who made the Mountains grow majestic and tall and jewels glisten like the new born sun.

            They, the story tellers of old, said that a force greater than both the Lord and Lady had placed them upon the Middle-Earth, others say that it was pure fate. It did not matter, truly. The Lady fell in love at first sight, akin to the Lord. The Lord had said that She was his One, his soul’s other half.

            The Green Lady told him of how she yearned for Children, so the Stone Lord smiled and crafted the first Dwarf from rock that came from deep within one of his mountains. The Green Lady, ecstatic at the child, created a creature in her image, an Elf. However, they did not sing to eachother and so they remained friends but also wished for their ones. The Green Lady gifted the Elf with another Elf, and the Stone Lord created another Dwarf for his child.

            There was also one race, not spoken of in any sacred text that was created. These were Hobbits, one of the few races that had Ones outside of their own blood.  They aged like Men, leaving their Dwarven and Elven Ones alone when they died at the other races idea of “young age”. The Green Lady wept, and the Stone Lord placed a blessing on each and every Hobbit. They’d live as long as their soulmate, but only if they found their One. If rejected, they would die. When The Green Lady questioned her Husband’s blessing he simply told her that “the Hobbits won’t suffer, if a fool of a One casts them aside, and if they betray their One, let them come to use for judgment, not the likes of the Common”.

            So the Hobbits, the Elves, the Men and the Dwarves lived peacefully and loved until a horror came upon Middle-Earth. From forth the darkness that both Lord and Lady sadly held; came the dragons, the Orcs, the Goblins and the Wargs. The Lady cried, and the Lord watched as the once peaceful land turned hateful.

            This time, no blessing could help the land.

 

            Thorin had Dis by the arm, keeping her from turning around to see her home burn. She yanked herself free, pushing Thorin away before running off to tend to the wounded. They’d been walking for what seemed forever, but the Mountain was still visible in a hue of red away in the distance.

            He wanted to cry, to curse the Dragon to the worst death, but he had to stay strong, even in fear. He could still feel a heavy presence in the back of his head, his One, and that gave him hope. His other half, even though he hadn’t met them, was alive.

            Night fell, his legs were numb, and his home was gone. He fell asleep by Dis, who just stared at the sky with something unreadable in her eyes, before she too laid down and let sleep take her.

           

            The sobs of a Hobbit went unheard.


End file.
